


Bravo went down to Georgia

by streetsuss_serenade



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 08:39:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12032214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/streetsuss_serenade/pseuds/streetsuss_serenade
Summary: It isn’t that Evan doesn’t appreciate the gesture. But he’s been trying to pretend that he’s fine all day, and it’s frustrating to be called out in such an unsubtle way.





	Bravo went down to Georgia

**Author's Note:**

> Based solely on the characters from the mini-series

Evan’s stitches itch. It’s almost a relief, because the entire rest of his thigh aches and burns. Every bump they hit, and Gunny does seem to hit every fucking bump in the goddamn road, sends a jolt of pain from his shin to his hip (Evan would swear he was doing it on purpose, except that he knows that Gunny doesn’t give him and his leg that much thought.) His teeth hurt from clenching them so often. He’s never been this aware of all of the muscles he’s been using to keep himself still and stable on the back of the truck - the tightness in his abs, in his calves, in his back. There are a constant stream of small transfers of weight through his legs and core that he never thought about before, but he’s now painfully aware of each movement as it shoots fire through his thigh. He’s pretty sure he can feel his skin knitting itself together and ripping apart with each movement.

He’s not gonna bitch. He’s a Marine and he’s not going to let some fucking ambush stop him, but that doesn’t mean that this doesn’t fucking suck. There’s nothing to do but drive for hours and hours, just so they can stop and command can tell them where they’re driving next. It’s bullshit, but it’s the mission. Stafford knows that the LT and Gunny have problems with the mission. He can hear it in their voices and see it in the glances they exchange, but that doesn’t bother him. That’s above his paygrade. His main concern is making sure he doesn’t wince where they can see him. Last thing he needs is one of them hovering over him and worrying about whether or not he’s combat effective. Fuck that. Shrapnel or not, he’s got bad guys to kill.

Or he would, if the bad guys would pop their heads out of whatever bad guy shitholes they’re hiding in and let him shoot them. Fucking hajis can’t even do war right. He begins singing quietly under his breath, but he can’t find the right song. Everything seems wrong; it’s too cheerful, or he can’t remember the words, or just as he’s getting into the groove of it, the Humvee hits another bump and he loses his place. Christeson had tried to join in on one or two, but gave up the third time Stafford had sworn and changed songs in the middle of a verse. Stafford gives up himself not long after. It’s better to be annoyed by his leg than to be annoyed by his leg and by music.

They ride in silence for awhile, but then Gunny takes a particularly sharp turn and Evan grunts in pain before he can stop himself. Christeson’s silence becomes pointed before he clearly loses his patience and says “Yo, man, we need another song to sing. For when we’re just riding like this.”

Evan pretends he doesn’t hear him. It isn’t that he doesn’t appreciate the gesture. But he’s been trying to pretend that he’s fine all day, and it’s frustrating to be called out in such an unsubtle way. Besides, what did Christeson think he’d been trying to do forty minutes ago? 

“It needs to be something baller. But with a lot of lyrics. Iraq has a lot of highway.” 

Stafford rolls his eyes. Sometimes he is genuinely unsure if this fool is actually dumb or if he just plays it up for laughs. It’s probably both. Sometimes it seems like Christeson had never even thought about the world beyond his own tiny yard before he’d up and joined the Marines. 

“What’s that song about the devil? We could do that one. You know…” Christeson hums a bit of The Devil Went Down to Georgia. “Bravo went down to the desert; they were looking for some gold to steal.. What comes next?”

“Get out of here with that weak ass shit, son” Stafford is in no mood to pretend that Christeson is amusing. He scopes a shape in his sector, but it’s a pile of dirt. It’s always a pile of dirt. Sometimes, if he’s lucky, it’s a rock. This entire fucking country fucking sucks. What he wouldn’t give for a legit target. Something to do other than be bounced around in this piece of shit humvee.

“Aren’t you from the South? Isn’t this the music of your people?”

“What the fuck whitebread state are you from that the best shit you can come up with is Charlie fucking Daniels?”

“C’mon man! Don’t leave me hanging! I’m gonna end up singing teeny bopper shit like Person!”

Christeson goes back to his half-humming, singing the words when he knows them, which appears to be a few words every two or three phrases. It would be amusing if it wasn’t so fucking annoying. In fact, it was amusing for the first few weeks, but they’ve been in this shit long enough that it makes Evan want to put his fist through Christeson’s teeth. Before he can tell Christeson to shove it, Christeson gets to the fiddle solo and tries to recreate it. It sounds like someone’s brakes were in need of repair, and they tried to block out the noise with a children’s toy that beeps and squeaks. It’s awful. He can’t help but laugh. Christeson’s an idiot.

He’s grinning into the wind when Gunny yells at them to quit caterwauling. 

“I know we’re not as silent as we might like, but that’s no reason to go alerting every Iraqi from here to the Euphrates where we are by carrying on like that.”

Wynn’s trying to sound stern, but Evan can tell without looking that he’s, at best, 40% mad. He sounds more amused than anything. If they were actually in trouble, the LT would have piped up by now. 

“Sorry, Gunny” Christeson says “I was just trying to get the violin sound right.” The LT snorts.

“It’s a fucking fiddle, fool,” Stafford mutters so that only Christeson can hear him.

“Screwby.”


End file.
